Dreams Won't Do
by Shade's Ninde
Summary: Roy/Kaldur. One-word prompts, oneshot responses.  Ratings, perspectives and genres vary.
1. Reality

I don't own Young Justice. I finally got a tumblr and as my first clumsy attempt at using it, I invited people to give me one-word prompts upon which to build short Roy/Kaldur stories. These are the results. If you have a tumblr and you want in, I'll fill up to ten of these - handle is shadesninde.

For anyone interested, the title is taken from a Mika song - "I See You" - that will always remind me of these two. Go have a listen. :)

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><p><strong>Dreams Won't Do<strong>

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><p><strong>REALITY<strong>

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><p>The Bialyan sun beats down on him harder than any blow, and at last, his knees buckle.<p>

He knows in this moment that he should not have pushed himself so far – he should have stopped when he had the chance, when he still had the strength to find protection from enemy forces, or at the very least some shade. There is a rock cropping nearby but it is not adequate. He is exposed here, to the elements and to attack, but the sun and the heat have sapped every last ounce of his power, magical and otherwise, and he cannot even open his eyes.

The sand is coarse against his exposed skin. The heat boils his very thoughts, sends them bleeding into one another as he sinks, into unconsciousness, struggling to the last.

He dreams of the cool Atlantic Ocean, of Shayeris and home. His mother guides his hand patiently, teaching him the basic brushstrokes of the Atlantean alphabet as he sits at the kitchen table, the centerpiece of their small home. But even as he manages the gestures, the characters slip from the page, rearrange themselves, spell out nonsense and form the faces of his classmates, jeering, mocking, laughing at him. Then the ink rushes off the page and twists up onto his arms, uniting on his back to become the symbol of his strength, and all their taunts fall silent.

He dreams of the military, of harsh discipline and raw meritocracy. His body takes a man's shape, his mind a soldier's, and he sees himself as if from a distance, on the border of a town of strangers, staving off a strange and shadowy menace while his squadron attempts to give aid. Despite them, the beast is strangely intent on him and him alone, its bright eyes glowing an unnatural red as its great black bulk threatens to crush him into the ocean floor. Then Kaldur's tattoos – the tattoos he should not yet have in this time of his life – flash a brilliant, defiant blue, as if to say _I do not belong to you, _and the beast crackles into dust for the current to sweep away.

He dreams of the Academy, of Garth's warm smile and Tula's pretty eyes. In his lessons, Mera and his mother become one, their forms seamlessly blending into one another's, his respect and admiration as unchanging as the ocean is fluid. The day after the ceremony, Tula runs her hands over these new, foreign marks on his skin and his heart races at her closeness, until suddenly her touch is like fire and her grip is like steel and she will not let him go, that gentle, apologetic smile plastered to her face like it's been painted there, and he can't breathe and he can't move and he can't fight and _it's so hot _

and then suddenly it is cold again, and he opens his dream-eyes to the sight of a plain white ceiling, its planes rippling through the lens of the water in which he lies. There is cool porcelain pressed against both his arms. There is a faucet between his feet. He is submerged in a bathtub.

Furthermore, he cannot rise. Though he can feel the water moving gently against his body below the surface, above him it is hard like a hundred-year ice, and however he struggles, it will not break. He closes his eyes, ready to accept his own helplessness, when suddenly a warm mouth presses onto his own and callused hands cup the back of his neck, pulling him up and out of the water as if there had never been a barrier at all, and intoxicated by these dream-sensations, he loses the need to see. Strong arms wrap around his back and cradle him to a broad, flat chest, and he melts.

He awakes to Artemis's worried face, to his teammates' success, and to the lingering memory of trust so deep, it rendered him blind and returned him to the water itself.


	2. Race

**RACE**

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><p>In retrospect, Roy has always been in a hurry.<p>

As a child – carving his own bow with a stolen knife when the elders told him he was too young to learn; shooting down a kestrel with one of his Azhé'é's arrows so he could fletch his own from its feathers; mounting his first horse as soon as he was old enough to reach the stirrups (and breaking his arm when the surprised stallion threw him into a ravine moments later).

As a hero – taking on his own patrols in secret when Ollie's League missions left him listless; training himself beyond the point of exhaustion day after day to reach that next level that much faster; abandoning his League aspirations when it became clear they would not, could not, be realized soon enough.

And as a man – moving into his own apartment the day he could legally do so; working full-time on top of his night job to eliminate the need for Ollie's sponsorship as quickly as possible; laying bare his feelings to Kaldur the minute he realized them.

Through all of this, Roy's not sure if he's been running _from_ something – his past, his demons, the many legacies he is trying to carry – or if it is a more hopeful race, a rush towards a better time that he has to believe is on the way, because when life hands you nothing, you punch life in the motherfucking face and _take_ what you want instead.

Lately, though, Roy has discovered he's capable of patience, given the right circumstances.

Maybe he's just been hanging around Kaldur too much. But when the Atlantean reclines against him on the couch, a sleepy weight against his chest at the end of a long, long day, he finds he's in no hurry to get up. And when Kaldur speaks with that voice so deceptively soft, so smooth and yet with a hoarse edge that reminds Roy of all his exquisite vulnerability, he forgets to anticipate the ends of Kaldur's sentences, just gets lost in the sound instead. And when they wake up in the morning, and the light slants in through the blinds to turn those green-grey eyes a whole new shade of spellbinding, he doesn't mind just lying there a little longer, tracing patterns against that dark, smooth skin with his fingertips.

Roy's lived with his finger jammed onto the fast-forward button for as long as he can remember. But since Kaldur came along with his level gaze and his quiet calm and all the steadfastness of the ocean itself, he's found that some things are worth slowing down for.


	3. Thunderstorms

**THUNDERSTORMS**

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><p>It's a terrible night to be in Star City.<p>

The power is out across most of town – Roy actually saw a portion of the grid burst into flames, struck by a stray lightningbolt, and alerted the fire squad himself as he watched from a nearby rooftop. Star Bridge has been closed due to high wind advisories, and reports of flooding are coming in from all across the district; the night isn't even over and this is already the worst storm on record in recent history. And yet, here he is, in the middle of all that, doing his thing, because the city's criminals aren't taking a break for a little bad weather so he can't either.

And some part of him realizes he has to be crazy. To be up here in the eaves of the night, soaked to the bone and shivering, dodging the odd bolt of lightning with a quiver full of metal objects strapped to his back…it's madness, plain and simple. Of course, every time that thought occurs to him, another part of him feels the need to point out that donning a mask and picking up a bow and hunting down the scum of the city under a ridiculous assumed name is not particularly sane regardless of the weather conditions, so he carries on, ignoring the protests of his aching body, chasing petty crooks away from shop fronts with powerless security systems, beating down the goons looking to take advantage of the uncommon dark of tonight's alleyways, delivering the homeless and vulnerable to emergency shelters when they're too disoriented to find their own way.

Despite the general emptiness of the streets, he gets into more than a few fights. Sometime during the sixth, he finds he's going hand-to-hand more often than usual tonight, because the wind does not favor archers and his aim isn't reliable enough in these conditions, but unfortunately, hand-to-hand is not Roy's strong suit, and he's faltering. His hands are slick with sweat and blood and rainwater. He can't get any traction in the puddles and potholes to execute any of the throws he's been practicing. On top of this, visibility is a big problem – the domino mask hinders his peripheral in the first place, and there are three thugs in this cramped alleyway, one of them with a nasty chain-like weapon that's already carved a long, deep souvenir in his left bicep, and it's becoming increasingly clear that he can't keep this up.

He looks around for a retreat route, some kind of plan B, but there's nothing.

Then one of the goons catches him upside the head with a thick steel pipe, and stars explode before his eyes, and he crumples back against the wall, bow clattering to the pavement beside him, and he gets the sick feeling he shouldn't have stayed out this long.

He's not sure if what happens next is real or if it's just a really badass hallucination brought on by the pain and the outrageous weather.

A dark shape drops off the building he's leaning against, lands in front of him with inhuman grace, and straightens out to face his attackers. Light floods the alleyway, blue-white light that makes Roy's heart race with recognition and relief, and he lets his eyes slip shut as the surprised shouts of his attackers fill the air, along with the roar of rain repurposed and the tell-tale crackle of sorcerous electricity.

Then suddenly, it is quiet. It is dry. _He is _dry.

He opens his eyes. The rain has stopped – rather, it has _been _stopped, its downward rush diverted away from where he leans bonelessly against the alley wall. Smooth hands are running over his body, methodically checking him for injury, and for once, he doesn't even have the energy to crack a joke about it, though he can think of several. He tilts his head up slightly as he feels his hair pushed back, revealing the congealing wound the pipe has left; he can't quite bite back the whine of pain in time, and the offending hand pulls away quickly. A moment later, cool lips press a gentle, apologetic kiss to his uninjured temple, and he closes his eyes again, exhausted.

He isn't sure when he loses consciousness, but when he awakes he is clean and dry, his wounds carefully dressed, his body encased in a warm cocoon of soft blankets. Kaldur lies beside him, unclothed and unashamed, dark skin faintly illuminated by the light creeping in through the filter of the curtains, and on impulse Roy shifts to drape the blankets over the Atlantean's sleeping frame, to let them better share the moment.

Whether it's the sudden warmth or the hand brushing across his shoulder as Roy adjusts the sheets, Kaldur stirs, eyes slipping half-open.

"Sorry," Roy whispers, kissing his forehead softly. "Go back to sleep."

"Mmm."

Kaldur seems too sleepy for words, but he nuzzles closer, cold breath ghosting across Roy's neck, and the archer is suddenly struck by the ridiculousness of their dual identities, that the same man who channeled all the power and fury of a thunderstorm last night is now naked in his bed, drifting off against his shoulder like it's perfectly normal.

And really, neither version of Kaldur is any more right or natural than the other. Maybe he's just tired or concussed or there's water still sloshing around in his brain, but as Roy watches the slow, even rise and fall of Kaldur's chest, as he lets his fingers trace the outline of Kaldur's tattoos a hair's breadth from his skin and watches his gills flutter in response, he feels a surge of uncharacteristic tenderness for this man, his lover, his teammate, his best friend.

The life of a hero is always uncertain, but Roy hopes that before his time is up, he'll get a few more moments like this: the calm between the storms.


	4. Chocolate ice cream

Note: this particular drabble was written for thefishboy on deviantart. If you haven't already checked out xyrs art, you should. It's fantastic.

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><p><strong>CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM<strong>

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><p>Kaldur does not like ice cream.<p>

Now, a certain amount of difference is to be tolerated, given the fact that he only arrived surfaceside a few months ago. And to his credit, he's managed to adopt an appropriate level of enthusiasm for most of the things to which his three fellow sidekicks have introduced him, including but not limited to:

Star Wars

Popcorn

Go-karting

Harry Potter

Multiplayer video games, with requisite competitive cursing

But he doesn't like ice cream.

This is unacceptable. Robin and Kid Flash have informed him that it's one of his greatest failings as a human being (and no, they maintain, it doesn't matter that he's not technically a human being). Roy agrees it's weird, but he's a little more willing to let the kid have his own damn tastes, so he's not about to pester the him about it, because that's just obnoxious.

In fact, he's practically forgotten the issue when the Terrible Two propose a little competition: whoever can get Kaldur to like ice cream first wins infinite bragging rights, and gets to select all the stages for all the video games they play for a week.

When you play a lot of video games, this is a very tempting prize. And besides, Roy thinks to himself, this whole thing could be…interesting. So he agrees, and the game is on.

Wally thinks the problem is experience.

"You just haven't found the right flavor," he tells Kaldur, and over the course of the next week, he brings him dozens of different kinds: pistachio, caramel, rainbow sherbet, fudge, coffee, almond mocha, strawberry, mango-kiwi…but Kaldur doesn't take to a single one.

"I am sorry," he says after he rejects the 47th flavor that week, leaving the speedster crestfallen. "Perhaps your time and money would be better spent on ice cream for yourself."

Given that Wally eats them all after Kaldur's one bite, he's pretty sure that's what he's been doing the whole time, but he concedes defeat.

Robin thinks the problem is quality.

"Tell me this isn't the best thing you've ever eaten," he challenges as he hands over a hand-labeled pint – it's Alfred's homemade stuff, and if there's one thing Alfred does even better than cookies, it's ice cream. You'd have to be a raving lunatic not to like it.

Kaldur, apparently, is a raving lunatic.

"I am sure it is very good…" he says politely, setting the spoon down after just a few bites.

"…but you don't like it," Robin finishes, since Kaldur seems too reluctant to say the words himself.

"I am afraid not."

Robin arches an eyebrow over the top of his sunglasses.

"I'm starting to wonder if we can really be friends after all."

Kaldur looks stricken.

"If the enjoyment of ice cream is such an important cultural experience, I will learn to tolerate it for the sake of companionship, but – "

" – exaggeration, dude," Robin cuts him off. "It's uh, it's a surface thing. Don't worry about it."

He eats the rest of the pint alone and tells himself it's a consolation prize.

Roy thinks the problem is association.

The four of them are hanging out at the beach outside Ollie's big fancy mansion on a Saturday afternoon. Star City is warm enough in the summertime, and since it's about the only beach they can all hang out on without risk of incident (most land dwellers find Kaldur's gills and webbed hands and feet a little freaky at first look), they're making the most of it – lounging in the sun, grilling hot dogs, talking shit about each other's mentors, comparing scars and stories and laughing about the whole gig while they still can.

Mid-afternoon, Wally busts out the ice cream, a big tub of plain chocolate that he's threatening to eat all of if Roy and Robin don't haul ass to get theirs first. And while Roy does enjoy chocolate ice cream, he has a grander destiny in mind for the scoops he packs oh-so-lightly onto the top of a sugar cone.

"That's kinda precarious," Robin points out. "You sure you – "

" – mind your own business, bat brat."

Two steps from reclaiming his seat on the sand at Kaldur's side, he "trips."

True to form (and plan), his aim is impeccable – the ice cream sails right off the cone and lands _plop _on Kaldur's shoulder, just above his right collarbone. The Atlantean jerks half-upright in surprise, which only makes the rapidly-melting treat slide a little lower, down towards his chest.

"Shit," Roy curses, dropping to the sand beside him. "Sorry about that, I – "

" – It is fine," Kaldur says hurriedly, lifting his hand to try and wipe the mess away, but Roy catches his arm, something playful and evil lighting up his blue eyes.

"I'll get it," the archer says coolly, a smirk slowly spreading across his face.

And he bends down, opens his mouth and _licks _his way up from the lowest melted stream, just above Kaldur's right nipple, all the way up to the bulk of the scoop still clinging to his clavicle, which he eats in one lingering bite. Robin and Wally freeze behind Kaldur's back, looking some hilarious mixture of confused and horrified and kind of excited. Finally, Roy pulls back and licks his lips, watching Kaldur's face.

It's totally worth the brainfreeze.

Kaldur's mouth is slightly open and his eyes are a little too wide, his gills fluttering open and closed despite the fact that he's not even close being in the water. He's staring at Roy's mouth like he's too stunned to look him in the eye, and when he doesn't say anything after a long moment, Roy takes the opportunity to go back and get the residue he missed the first time around, the sticky sweetness still clinging to the Atlantean's chest.

It tastes of chocolate and sweet, sweet victory.

They play nothing but Rainbow Road and Hyrule Castle for a week.


	5. Downtime

**DOWNTIME**

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><p>Roy's been pushing himself lately, and it shows. There are dark circles under his eyes – too many nights spent out on patrol, too many days spent working to pay the rent. There's a paleness to his skin – not enough sleep, not enough to eat, not for the training regimen he's keeping. There's an edge to his voice that betrays the utter exhaustion beneath his usual hardness.<p>

Ollie and Dinah try to tell him he needs to take it easy for a little bit. A tired hero is a vulnerable hero, and he'll be no use to anyone dead or maimed, which despite Roy's attitude, is always a distinct possibility in their line of work. But he ignores them, and goes out on patrol again that night, telling himself he just needs to get his body used to this more rigorous schedule and he'll be fine. In the end, it's Kaldur who convinces him that he needs to take some downtime, simply by looking him in the eye and saying in that quiet, damnably reasonable voice,

"You are working yourself to death, my friend."

So Roy takes the next day off, and when Kaldur finishes with training for the afternoon, he lets himself into the archer's apartment with groceries and a recipe for a proper, balanced meal, which he prepares quietly while Roy sleeps in the next room.

"You didn't have to," Roy objects when he wakes up to the smell of dumplings and seasoned vegetables.

"No," Kaldur agrees, and hands him a plate.

After dinner, they do the dishes together, the silence between them calm and unstrained, then Roy excuses himself to take a shower since he's still sleep-scruffy and in need of a shave. Kaldur takes the opportunity to clean up the kitchen and the living room a little, as it's clear Roy hasn't had time to do so in the recent past, then he pulls the spare sheets down from the linen closet and makes the bed afresh.

When Roy steps out of the bathroom, hair still wet and dressed only in a pair of low-slung track pants, Kaldur is waiting for him.

"Lie down," he instructs the archer, gesturing to the bed – there is a towel on the pillow, and the blankets have been pulled back to leave the majority of the surface clear.

Roy gives him a questioning look but obeys, stretching out on the clean sheets.

"Turn over."

It's strange how the timbre of Kaldur's voice makes the order sound like a suggestion. Without a word, Roy rolls over onto his stomach.

Kaldur stands up from his seat on the side of the bed, removing his hands from the basin of hot water in which they've been soaking. He knows his hands are normally cold, and cold hands will not help Roy relax, so he's done his best to warm them up for him.

Roy jerks in slight surprise as Kaldur climbs onto the bed and moves to straddle his hips. But the instant the Atlantean's hands make contact with his bare back, sliding deep into the knotted muscle there, he relaxes, letting out a soft groan as he realizes just what's going on.

"You are tense, my friend," Kaldur murmurs, though he's not surprised. Roy is as taut as his own bowstring.

"Yeah, it's…been one of those weeks," Roy mutters, and closes his eyes.

"I will not be offended if you fall asleep."

Roy grunts in response, flinching slightly as Kaldur's fingers work deep into a particularly sore place between his shoulderblades.

"Unngh. Have I told you lately you're – "

" – hush."

Roy falls obediently silent, and Kaldur slides his hands up to his neck, rubbing increasingly firm circles into the skin there. He knows every inch of this body, knows the origin of every ache and the source of every tension; Roy is tight like a clockwork toy but Kaldur knows how to unwind him, piece by piece.

His neck, knotted from sniping, from staring down the shafts of so many arrows on long-range shots that he cannot afford to miss.

His upper back, sore from the raw repetition of pulling back the bowstring, drawing the deadly, heavy tension out of his weapon again and again, night after night.

His shoulders, twisted from the contortions of ziplining and urban gymnastics, from catching the edges of one too many fire escapes and dragging himself up onto one too many rooftops.

His lower back, stiff from hours hunched over a fletching kit, fixing trick heads to wooden shafts, endlessly adjusting the feathers to achieve a truer flightpath.

Kaldur dips his hands into the water again to reheat them, then reapplies himself, slowly working his way through each knot in Roy's belabored back, keeping his touch deep enough to reach the twisted muscle beneath but not so deep that he will cause unnecessary pain. Every so often, he lets his hands ghost over a particular patch of skin, recalling the meaning of one scar or another.

The V-shaped mark above his right shoulderblade, from a chunk of shrapnel that pierced his body armor from behind as he ran from the blast, knocking him to the ground in the midst of all that heat and smoke, three Februaries past.

The thick white line in his left side, from a thug who knifed him as he attempted (in plainclothes) to break up a fight outside a local bar last November.

The fading burn on his right bicep, from accidental contact with a fire-hot slat of metal in the rafters of a burning building not three weeks ago.

The track marks, from the most persistent enemy Roy has ever faced.

Kaldur lets his fingertips graze over each one and all the ones in between, giving Roy a moment to recover between his firmer touches, watching the subtle changes in the archer's body language to be sure he is not hurting him.

When finally he feels the last of the tension draining from the prone frame beneath him, he warms his hands up one more time and simply runs them over Roy's skin, slow and gentle and feather-light. Roy has gone remarkably quiet, his breathing low and steady, and for a moment Kaldur thinks he has indeed fallen asleep. But as he carefully shifts his weight away, trying not to disrupt him in dismount, Roy rolls over slowly, almost bonelessly, and reaches for him.

With a small smile, Kaldur moves close enough for Roy to pull him closer yet, and they share a slow, lazy, grateful kiss. From the way the archer's eyes are hooded and his fingers curl into the soft fabric of Kaldur's tee shirt, Kaldur knows he has done right.

"Is this going to happen every time I take a day off?" asks Roy, his voice a warm, low rasp.

Kaldur smiles and rests an idle hand on the archer's chest, pressing a kiss to his temple.

"If that is what it takes."


	6. Drown

**DROWN**

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><p>These aren't his real friends.<p>

Roy knows that. But there's something about having people outside the hero community, people who don't watch the shadows when you walk through perfectly safe neighborhoods, people whose idea of a bad day is a rough time at work and a fight with the girlfriend, people who don't say goodbye with the weight of the knowledge that it could be the last time they ever do.

So he's here at the bar with his old bandmates, the kind of guys who aren't far off from what he cleans up off the streets most days, and he's pretending to be one of them because recently he's been losing it, and that scares him. He has to be better than that. He has to remember how to be normal.

It's the stress of the job, he tells himself, and orders another shot of bourbon.

"You feeling all right, man?" asks Alex, reaching over to punch him in the arm. Roy nearly spills his shot, but tips it to his lips and downs it quickly, setting the glass down on the table when he's done.

"Fine," he grunts, wiping his lips.

He's not. He's been thinking things lately. Things normal guys don't think, and not just the "I think I'll put on a costume and fight crime" kind of abnormalcy.

He's been thinking about Kaldur.

"If you say so," Alex shrugs. He taps his breast pocket and lowers his voice, eyes lighting in guarded anticipation. "You want a hit later? For old times' sake?"

Roy shakes his head automatically, but finds himself reconsidering a split second later. Heroin would be so much more efficient than alcohol – thoughts burn faster than they drown, and he needs these ones to go, one way or another. He can't keep this up. Sooner or later somebody's going to catch on to him.

But he turns his attention back to the room to distract himself after a moment, because ultimately nothing is worth going through that hell again, not even this. He can fix things the old-fashioned way, with a bottle and a bar tab and a one-night stand. Probably.

"See that girl in the corner?" Brandon grins suddenly, leaning over to point her out, a brunette with a pretty smile and a nice rack. Roy is reassuringly attracted. "Bet you a beer I can get her number."

"You're on," Roy agrees, glad for the diversion, and they shake on it.

As Brandon walks away, he gets up to order another drink. He's lost count of how many he's had tonight, but he never used to count at all, back when it was just the five of them and the drugs and the music (if you could call the noise they made music - Dinah certainly hadn't). Why can't tonight be just like that, like it used to be, back before these absurd ideas started invading his head?

_Kaldur is your best friend,_ he reminds himself angrily, watching the bartender pour his gin and tonic. _Get a grip, Roy._

Ollie would kick him out all over again if he knew, if Roy hadn't already moved out during his third millisecond of legal emancipation. Actually, maybe Ollie's enough of a dirty hippie to take no issue. But the others – Hal, Wally, Robin,_ Kaldur _– they'd see him for what he really is, and they'd all be gone before he even had a chance to attempt to explain.

Explain _what?_

Explain that at the end of a long night's patrol, when the morning light tints the harbor a pale grey-blue-green, all he can think of is Kaldur's eyes?

Explain that when they're together, all he can do is imagine what it would be like to hear that velvet voice soft and low in his ear, close enough to feel the breath tickling his skin?

Explain that when he wakes up in the morning, tired and sore and alone, all he wants is the Atlantean's cold, reassuring weight against his chest, to know that by some miracle, they've both made it through another day?

It's just stress. _It's just stress_. Roy's not gay. He's just been pushing himself too hard. It's just adrenaline turned to sexual frustration and mistakenly redirected to the wrong object, because he's been spending too much time around Kaldur lately and his brain doesn't know better. He's just confused, and all he needs to do is find a girl and take her home and remind his subconscious that he's _straight, _because he _is _straight, dammit. Then this will all go away and he can go back to being normal, to having normal thoughts, to having normal, dreamless sleep…

"You look pretty pissed for a guy who just won a bet," Brandon grumbles, startling Roy out of his thoughts as he slams a pint of beer down in front of him. In the corner, the brunette has gone back to chatting with her friends. Apparently, the attempt to get her phone number did not go exactly as planned.

"Smooth," Roy remarks, and picks up the new drink. He's starting to feel refreshingly numb now, starting to get into that place where he knows he's not in the pilot's seat anymore, where all that's left to do is set a destination and let routine take over.

"Like you could do better," Brandon shoots back, and goes off to talk to the others.

Roy does.

When he wakes up in the morning, head pounding, the girl is pretty and soft and warm in his bed, all lush curves and blushing beauty. It's exactly what he's supposed to want.

Too bad what he actually wants is cold and hard and handsome, not to mention completely, utterly, unquestionably wrong.


	7. Seashells

**SEASHELLS**

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><p>Kaldur gave Lian a seashell around the time she stopped trying to eat everything that size.<p>

It's a conch, pale pink, with stripes of white and ivory, its edges worn smooth by the tides from which he plucked it. On the day he brought it to her, he said it was for the times he had to go away – that when he was gone, all she had to do was lift it to her ear and listen for the ocean, and if she listened _very _carefully, she'd also hear his voice, telling her how much he loves her, now and always.

(And he did love her, as if she were his own child. Everyone used to wonder how it was possible, given all the mess and pain and confusion surrounding her birth, but he always insisted with cool finality that the matter was between himself and Roy, and long passed at that. After a time they stopped questioning him about it.)

Lian keeps the shell on her bedside table. She used to sleep with it, used to hold it to her ear and let the sound of the waves send her off every night, but Roy worried she'd roll over and hurt herself (generally speaking, Roy just worried), so he convinced her to sleep with the stuffed dolphin Wally gave her instead, the one Robin dubbed 'Tuna' before either Kaldur or Roy could submit that this was not an appropriate name for a stuffed dolphin. So now the shell has a special place beside the bed instead, and every morning Lian insists on listening for Kada's voice before she leaves the house, because she has to make sure he's still in there, and still loves her. According to Lian, he does.

(As a little girl, she had difficulty with his name, struggling with the subtler sounds in it, so he became Kada. He never minded, and Roy, who had never mastered the proper Atlantean pronunciation anyway, occasionally slipped and called him that too. Kaldur never minded that either.)

Lately, Lian's been asking when Kada's coming home because as much as she loves the shell, she loves him more, and it's been so long since he last went off to Atlantis, and he hasn't even sent them any messages, except the shell's unchanging one, _I love you, I love you. Now and always, I love you._

Roy tells her to be patient, and tells himself to be strong.

(He can't tell her the truth yet. She wouldn't understand, and besides, telling her would make it real. Telling her would be admitting to himself that Kaldur's not coming back, now or ever, and Roy's not ready for that. In his head, he still believes that someday he's going to get home from patrol and find Kaldur waiting, tired and aching but _there, _fetching Lian a glass of water in the middle of the night or reading the newspaper to know what he's missed these last eight months, or just asleep in their bed like he never left in the first place. Roy's pretty sure that if he stops believing this, he'll fall apart.)

The others play along, for Lian's sake (which is really Roy's sake, but no one will say this out loud). Wally and Robin make up humorous situations for Lian to play out with Tuna, distract her with mischief and hijinks and tell her all the embarrassing stories they remember about her father, or about Kal.

(It's their way of keeping his memory alive, for themselves as much as for her.)

M'gann bakes cookies with Lian, which they make Roy eat whenever he gets home from duty on the Watchtower. She amuses her by taking on the shapes of her various aunties – Dinah, Diana, Mera, who always looks so sad lately – and helps her paint her toenails pale pink, to match the shell (_now and always_).

Some people remark that it was fair, in the end – Orin and Manta both lost a son, after all. Conner thinks this is a ridiculous case of oversimplification. Kaldur was not Manta's son any more than Conner is Superman's, any more than Lian was not his daughter. Orin and Mera lost two children that day. Blood does not enter into it.

Artemis takes her niece to the beach, where they sit and build castles in the sand, castles "just like the one in Atlantis," where Orin and Mera live, which Lian has never seen but knows exactly how to build because Kada used to tell her about it at bedtime. He once promised to take her there someday. Lian is still looking forward to it.

(Artemis has no taste for lying, having done too much of it in her life, but when she sees the corners of those black, black eyes – her sister's eyes – crinkle up in pure, simple delight, she understands why Roy has asked that they wait to tell her. Lian is the child of heroes; death will be a part of her life soon enough. It need not come now, and through someone so dear to her.)

Sometimes Roy wonders if he'll _ever _have the courage to tell her.

Sometimes he falls asleep in his overlarge bed and dreams that he went with him that night when the emergency alert came in, dreams that he was strong skilled brave _good _enough to stop things from ending the way they did.

Sometimes he stares at the only photo of the three of them, Lian a squirming toddler in his arms, Kaldur with a hand on his shoulder and that quiet smile of his, and tries to come up with the words he'll have to say eventually, only to find he can't even think them.

Sometimes, he slips into Lian's room on his return from patrol, checks to see that she is safe and sound and asleep, and picks the seashell up from her nightstand with his half-gloved hands, and cups it to his ear, _I love you, now and always, _and breaks.


	8. Costumes

**COSTUMES**

* * *

><p>"Please tell me this is some kind of practical joke."<p>

Roy is staring at Batman without a trace of humor in his own voice, but the Dark Knight seems unmoved.

"I don't joke about the mission," he replies flatly.

Kaldur could have told Roy that, but even _he_ is a little skeptical about this assignment – why them? Why not someone with more…experience in these matters? As respectfully as he can manage, he asks.

"Robin informed me that the two of you would be ready and willing to take this on," says Batman, and Kaldur can hear the challenge in those words. "If he was wrong… speak up now."

"Of- of course not," Kaldur says quickly. He chances a glance at Roy, and the expression on the archer's face tells him that a certain little bird will likely be caught and cooked before the week is up.

"Good," Batman nods, turning to flick the holoscreen on to display a graphic of the hotel layout. "Now listen up. I'll need at least a half an hour to crack the security systems in the back room, possibly more. No one – and I mean _no one – _can leave the party during that time, or we won't get the information we need, and the trial is as good as thrown."

"So…we're a glorified distraction," Roy sums up, folding his arms over his chest.

"If that's your idea of glory," Batman remarks, leaving the archer flushed and angry, but he continues before Roy can interrupt. "Aqualad, Zatanna will be disguising your non-human traits with a magical glamour. If anything goes wrong – and keep in mind that this _is _the daughter of Detroit's most notorious mob boss you're dealing with – you will break character and alert me immediately via comm. Red Arrow, you will…"

And he continues, describing the various Plan Bs and Cs they've put in place. Kaldur pays attention, but part of him is still wondering how, after two years of military training and a year and a half of sorcery school and three years spent training with his king on the surface, it's come to…well, _this._

* * *

><p>"This is absurd," Roy grumbles, adjusting his black police hat in the mirror. They're in the hotel, getting ready; Batman provided the uniforms mumbling something about a 'connection in the biz' and disappeared about half an hour ago. Ten minutes to showtime.<p>

"Is this…traditional?" Kaldur asks with a frown, running a finger curiously over his neck – he can feel his gills but not see them, and it's a little unnerving.

Roy looks over at him.

"Is what traditional?"

"To partake in sexually-themed entertainment the night before a wedding," Kaldur says. "And…the outfits."

"Yeah," says Roy with a sigh. "Uh, it's…an American thing, I guess. Bachelorette parties. And hot cops. You ready for this?"

"I cannot be sure," Kaldur frowns uncertainly, looking himself up and down in the mirror – the uniform is unnecessarily tight, the crisp black fabric pulled taut across his chest, thighs and buttocks, and the shiny silver badge looks tacky and fake. "I do not think anyone will be fooled by this disguise."

"It's not a disguise," Roy says, a faint, fond smile playing at his lips as his eyes flick up and down Kaldur's body. "It's just a costume. Look, this will be a half an hour, an hour tops. We're young, we're sexy, we know it. We can do this."

Kaldur rubs his arm uncomfortably.

"I am not sure I understand what to do."

Roy lays a hand on Kaldur's shoulder and squeezes it reassuringly.

"Just follow my lead," he smirks.

* * *

><p>When they approach, he doorman looks them up and down with the bored composure of someone who has done this far too many times.<p>

"The evening's entertainment, I presume?" he says. When Kaldur nods, he opens the door and mutters something that sounds like "good luck."

Their audience (about twenty young women, crowded into the swanky private hotel bar) is clearly already boozed up, despite the early hour; the room smells strongly of fruity alcohol and perfume. When the door opens, the chatting women turn like a single creature, and suddenly the air is full of whoops and cheers and clapping, drowning out all but the throbbing bass beat of the music that's blasting out of the speakers. Kaldur is momentarily paralyzed by the unfamiliarity.

Roy, on the other hand, slips instantly into character. An easy smirk takes his lips and he jumps up onto the small stage, whipping his hat off so he can toss it out into the crowd, and a riot of sorts breaks out as the girls squeal and scramble to claim it. Kaldur is unsure if what he is feeling is better described as confusion or jealousy, but before he has a chance to figure it out, Roy is stretching a hand towards him in silent invitation, and he's being pulled up on the stage, and the crowd is whistling and catcalling and they're doing that _for him_ but he has no idea what to do. Then suddenly Roy moves behind him, body language fluid and relaxed, and whispers into his ear,

"Bend your knees, move your hips. Smile."

Kaldur obeys, masking his discomfort behind an easy smile and swaying his hips in time with the music. It's not as graceful as Roy's movements, but the crowd seems to like it, especially when Roy reaches around him and begins to unbutton his shirt, fingers moving achingly slowly as they expose just a few inches of skin at a time. By the time the song is over, it's hanging off his shoulders, completely open at the front, and the women are watching them both with a look in their eyes Kaldur can only call _hunger. _Few things frighten Kaldur, but that look does.

Roy struts out to the front of the stage, snagging Kaldur's hat as he goes. One hand flicks briefly behind his back in a _follow me _gesture, and Kaldur takes the cue, acting affronted by the theft and chasing after the archer, who flips the hat behind his back and easily thwarts Kaldur's attempt to grab it back.

It's a flirtatious game of keep-away, and the audience loves every second of it. Roy plays his part with a perfect balance of mischief and threat, smirking as he leaves Kaldur grasping at empty air, baring his teeth in a predatory grin as he sidesteps the Atlantean's latest swipe and smacks his ass playfully with the hat. When the charade has run its course, he tosses the thing into the crowd to join his own, and gives Kaldur a little nudge.

"Go after it," he mutters, and hops off the stage.

They make the rounds, pandering to the drunk and appreciative young women; Kaldur is not sure he's ever had his ass pinched this many times, and he meets Roy's eyes from across the room as if begging him to acknowledge the absolute ludicrousness of the situation, but the archer just shrugs and grins, mouthing the words _go with it._

By the time they make it back up to the stage, Kaldur's shirt has disappeared entirely and Roy's is unbuttoned down to his navel. Someone in the crowd shrieks something that is probably "take it off" and he obliges, sending the last two buttons skittering across the stage as he simply rips the thing off and tosses it to the bride-to-be, who blows him a kiss in return.

The music changes. Kaldur idly wonders how Batman is getting on with the safe in the back room, how much more of this they have to endure, when suddenly Roy's voice is in his ear again.

"Handcuff me."

He crouches low to the ground, gyrating in time with the beat. It is…distracting. Kaldur has to try very hard not to raise an alarmed eyebrow, focusing on staying in character.

"What?"

"Just do it."

Deciding that Sense has taken a sick day, Kaldur complies. He unclips the cuff from his belt, attempting a devilish smile at their audience as the ladies' excited catcalls rise in volume, then moves to stand behind Roy. With a swift, firm motion, he twists his lover's arms behind him, gathers his wrists at the small of his back, and cuffs them there.

The crowd goes wild. Roy straightens out, still dancing, that damn smirk still plastered to his face, and Kaldur begins to get the feeling that despite his grumbling, the archer is actually enjoying this, whatever "this" is. Then suddenly, Roy is pressing back against him, blocking him from the audience, and he becomes aware of a strange sensation in the vicinity of his groin, and before he can process what's going on his belt is flying out of his belt loops because Roy has somehow managed to remove it with his _cuffed hands._

Kaldur's pants drop and he kicks them aside quickly, knowing that he has to make it look like part of the act even if his cheeks are burning – he's worn less than this in public before, but not like _this, _not with so many people looking at his body like it's all once big piece of meat and the stage edge is all that's keeping them from eating him alive. Then Roy dances nimbly away, his smirk broader than ever, and Kaldur can't deny that somewhere in his humiliation there is a twinge of arousal, too.

As the women scream for more, they continue the game. Somewhere along the line, Roy loses his boots and Kaldur has a strawberry daiquiri spilled down his chest; at one point, when someone gets up claiming she needs some air, Kaldur is forced to catch her in the doorway and use his body to convince her to stay, which ultimately she does, fanning herself.

Just when Roy has lowered himself into the bride-to-be's lap and begun a sensual dance, still cuffed, Kaldur hears the tell-tale click of the comm in his ear.

"Batman to Aqualad and Red Arrow," the Dark Knight's voice growls, and the absurd combination of Batman and _the entire situation _almost makes Kaldur laugh and break character. "I've cleared the building. Wrap up and get out of there."

Which provides Kaldur with the perfect opportunity to storm across the room (sexily, of course) and pull Roy forcibly out of the drooling young woman's lap, nightstick held in one hand threateningly. The ladies laugh and cheer, assuming it is part of the act, and as Kaldur steers Roy out of the room like a policeman with a captured criminal, they burst into a final round of applause.

It's _over._

* * *

><p>"So…that could have been worse."<p>

Kaldur arches an eyebrow skeptically, his head propped on his hand as he lies beside Roy in the now glitter-strewn sheets.

"Land customs continue to perplex me."

"Oh, come on," Roy smirks, running two fingers over Kaldur's bare shoulder, where his tattoos aren't_ – _the glamour should wear off in a day or so. "Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it, just a little."

"Hardly. I am not a…what is the expression Robin taught me last week?" Kaldur ponders.

"Attention whore," Roy supplies, and Kaldur nods. "Well I didn't see you objecting to my _attentions _just now."

Kaldur flushes, then gasps as Roy laughs and twists his head forward to nip playfully at his hidden gills. His hand slides to grasp the archer's bicep despite his best efforts not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

"I'm still gonna kill Robin though," Roy decides as he pulls back, leaving Kaldur breathless and struggling to reply.

"I…may have to join you in that endeavor, my friend," he manages to gasp out.

"Good," Roy grins. Without warning, he rolls on top of the Atlantean, swiping the handcuffs off the nightstand as he straddles him. "Want to join me in one more before then?"


	9. Distance

**DISTANCE**

* * *

><p>Roy is 2,698 miles away when he gets the signal.<p>

He's barely awake – it's early afternoon, and he patrolled last night, and he has a chicken cutlet sizzling on the stove when his communicator emits a small shriek from the bedroom, and it can only mean one thing. Flicking the gas off, he hurries to check the nature of the distress signal and the status of other responders.

His heart nearly stops when he sees the screen. The source is Kaldur, the urgency is high, and no one else's channel is active.

"Location and status, Aqualad," he snaps, jamming his thumb into the comm activation switch as he slips it into his ear. He's already heading for his gear.

"Boston," crackles Kaldur's voice through the speaker – bad connection. "Piers Park. South side."

"Status," Roy prompts again, zipping up the front of his uniform and slinging his quiver over his back.

"I have sustained a…significant injury," Kaldur reports. Even with the faulty connection and the bad quality of the comm speakers, Roy can detect a raggedness in the Atlantean's voice, and his heart clenches as he slips into the alleyway, heading for the nearest zeta station. He's trying not to think of all the horrible possibilities, but they're flooding his mind already. "The threat is still at large. I am…unable to subdue it…in my condition."

"What's the threat?" Roy asks, his voice curt, revealing none of the panic that's sending adrenaline coursing through his blood. "And what's your condition?"

"Many creatures, seeming to be of one mind," Kaldur replies, taking a pained, shuddering breath that makes Roy's own breath catch in his chest. "I was…unable to…determine which to target."

"Understood. Your condition, Aqualad," Roy presses as he approaches the police box.

"There are civilians in the area," says Kaldur, his breathing growing more labored by the second. "Their defense…should be your…priority."

"_Your condition. _Report."

The zeta radiation whisks Roy out of Star City and he materializes in East Boston, beneath a manhole in a fake sewer line.

_2.1 miles._

"I have sought refuge…in a…nearby parking enclosure," Kaldur replies, and the way he's dodging this question is infuriating and terrifying all at once. At least the connection is clearer now. Roy grits his teeth, hopping up onto street level and taking off at a run. "I believe I have lost…a considerable amount of blood."

Roy blocks the mental images and bypasses the main arterial, knowing the light will take too long to change.

"Is anyone else with you?"

"No. The team is…on a mission," Kaldur murmurs. "I was investigating something as…as a favor to my king."

_1.8 miles._

"Stay with me, Aqualad," Roy urges. "I'm almost there."

Kaldur laughs weakly. The sound is strangely chilling.

"I am not going anywhere, my friend."

For a few minutes, there's just the pounding of Roy's feet against the pavement, the honks of the cars he dodges as he bolts through traffic, the heavy drag of Kaldur's rattling breath in the comm speakers.

_1.3 miles._

Suddenly, Roy hears something shift on the other end of the line, hears Kaldur suppress a small hiss.

"Aqualad?"

"I hear…cries of distress," Kaldur says, and Roy detects the tell-tale metallic _clink _of the younger hero's waterbearers. "The creatures must have…located the – ah! Civilians…"

The tiny cry of pain in that sentence rips a whole new depth in Roy's urgency. He increases his pace, bolting down a back alley in the hopes that it will prove a viable shortcut – he has to scale a fence, but it works.

"Stay put," he orders sharply. "We're heroes, not martyrs."

_0.9 miles._

"I cannot in good conscience…stand by while…"

Kaldur trails off, and Roy can hear him moving now, his breath far too heavy in his ear.

"Don't be stupid," Roy half snaps, half begs. "You're going to get yourself killed."

_0.7 miles._

A new sound – water, rapidly morphing, a stifled grunt of pain. A sudden flurry of motion, inhuman shrieks, high-pitched snarls, the sound of something solid connecting with flesh. A woman's scream. Sirens. Piercing feedback, then static.

"Aqualad!" Roy shouts, reaching up to adjust his comm as he continues to run, lungs burning. "Aqualad, do you copy?"

Nothing.

"Dammit!"

_0.5 miles._

Roy's thoughts race faster than his feet can carry him, horror after horror bubbling up in his mind's eye. It's as if the world is closing in, condensing all his feelings and senses into a single, desperate prayer that pounds with his racing heartbeat: _don't let me be too late. Don't let me be too late._

_0.3 miles._

He crests the hill and the harbor comes into view below, glittering blue in the afternoon sun. Piers Park looks quiet and serene from this distance, but he can hear the sirens again now, this time from the surroundings, not from his communicator. A split second later, he hears the sharp, delayed _bang _of gunshots and makes for the sound.

_1000 feet._

A half-dozen squad cars are crowded into the space between the south parking garage and the harbor. The officers are crouched behind their doors, firing at a swarming mass of something – Roy is too far away to get a good look.

_640 feet._

Two of the officers rush out from behind the blockade, firing wildly into the fray as they approach something lying in the grass. They cast their weapons aside and crouch beside it, and suddenly Roy feels as though his stomach has turned to ice.

_No. No, no, no no no…_

_479 feet._

Roy draws an arrow as he races down the hill, running on training and instinct and adrenaline; reason and composure have long since deserted him. One of the creatures – he can see them now, six-legged barbarians with wicked claws and eyes like fire – breaks from the pack and runs for the officers on the grass, a screeching whine dripping from its gaping jaws. It's down before it ever has a chance, a red-fletched arrow buried in its side.

_362 feet._

As he runs, Roy forces himself to concentrate, to remember what Kaldur had told him about these beasts. _Of one mind, _he'd said. Roy scans the pack, quickly picks off one monster as it approaches the officers, then another.

_280 feet._

His legs are on fire. His lungs are aching. His chest is heaving. He fires off another arrow, one that sets off a small explosion that scatters all the beasts but one, which advances slowly, without fear, its eyes burning with intent.

_191 feet._

Rapid and reckless, Roy fires off several more shots, some of which go wild; one strikes the creature in the back leg, and it snarls, more enraged than incapacitated, the lunges for the two officers who are crouched beside what Roy can clearly see is Kaldur's prone body, trying to drag him out of harm's way.

_143 feet._

Quick as lightning Roy nocks and shoots a net arrow, which entangles the beast enough to stall it for a few seconds before it rips through the cords and continues its charge.

_99 feet._

The thing takes two bullets from the still-firing officers but doesn't go down.

_72 feet._

Roy draws a sharp-tipped arrow, narrows his eyes, takes a moment to aim. The creature's heart isn't where you'd expect, or it would be dead by now.

_49 feet._

The arrow whistles past the officers, followed shortly by Roy himself. It buries itself between the beast's second and third legs, just above the underbelly, and with a hideous squeal, the thing goes down. The others stumble and fall, the hivemind failing before their eyes, and the officers lower their guns.

_21 feet._

Roy does not stop running. His drops his bow when he reaches the grass, eyes trained on one thing alone.

_8 feet._

He collapses to the lawn, hands reaching out, breathless from fear and from the race.

_Please._

There is a deep, deep wound in Kaldur's torso, an ugly rip in his beautiful skin – his bottommost gill has been slashed open, the gash extending all the way to mid-chest, and the grass is stained with his dark blood. Roy's heartbeat thuds in his throat as he cradles the Atlantean's head in his trembling hands.

"Kal," he gasps out, too quiet for anyone else to catch the name. "Kal, please, God…"

Two officers approach, a heavy medkit between them; more distant sirens tell the approach of an ambulance.

Roy presses his forehead to Kaldur's, breath coming out in broken gasps now.

"Don't do this," he begs, squeezing his eyes shut. He can't have come all this way just to fail now. It's not how this works. "Please."

There's a small group of civilians watching them, presumably the ones Kaldur left the parking structure to defend. One of the officers lays a hand on Roy's shoulder, gently tugging him away so that the other can kneel down and cut Kaldur's destroyed uniform top off him, revealing the full extent of the damage. Roy's head is spinning; his vision is whiting out. The adrenaline is dropping off, replaced by numbness and nausea.

Then suddenly something brushes his leg, and he looks down to see Kaldur's hand, palm-up in the grass, gently pressed against the side of his knee. With a wordless shudder, Roy takes it in his own and watches the Atlantean's grey eyes crack open, lips parting in a soundless attempt to speak.

Roy shakes his head, squeezes Kaldur's hand gently.

The EMTs rush toward them.

Before they can take Kaldur away, Roy closes the distance between them and brushes a feather-light kiss against the Atlantean's lips.

Kaldur closes his eyes, sinks into a deep peace.

_0 feet. _


	10. Ritual

**RITUAL**

* * *

><p>It is a beautiful ceremony.<p>

Atlantean weddings are not unlike those on the surface world – they have a bride and a groom and a promise and a kiss, followed by a lively celebration; families and friends of the betrothed gather, and music is played, and the occasion brings about great joy, at least for most.

There are differences too. Most Atlanteans do not call upon any god to bless the occasion, and the one officiating the ceremony need not be a member of any religious order – in this case, it is Queen Mera presiding, with great pride. Furthermore, formal dress is different in Atlantis than it is up above. Tula wears no sweeping gown of heavy fabric, but a gossamer shift of cerulean the very shade of her eyes, cinched with an intricate golden belt at her slender waist; her arms and feet are bare, and the rich yellow ribbons upon her wrists and ankles trail through the water to create delicate shapes with the shifting currents. Garth wears a simple tunic of deep blue. They both look stunning.

Kaldur wears his old military uniform, the only formal Atlantean garment he still has after so many years on the surface. He stands at Garth's side and watches Tula's father escort her down the shell-strewn aisle, returning the cautious smile she offers him with a reassuring nod. He has told them many times, and it is true: he is happy for them.

As the ceremony proceeds, Kaldur finds his mind drifting. At one time, these were his best friends in the world, the only two he trusted with his doubts, his dreams, his secrets, but time and distance and the life he leads have pulled him away over the years. He knows his role in their wedding is more than a formality. But all the same, he can't help but feel removed from it, as though he is spectating from within, looking in on something that is happening in some distant reality completely unrelated to his own. He hardly notices when Mera finishes her final speech, when his friends embrace one another and share their first kiss of married life; only the cheers of their families and friends pull him from his reverie.

At the reception, Garth seeks him out, claps his shoulder, thanks him yet again for taking the time away from the team to be with them on this special day. Kaldur reassures his old friend that it is a welcome respite, and congratulates him for what feels like the thousandth time. But when he urges Garth to go join his bride in greeting their many well-wishers, the dark-haired boy (no – a man, not a boy any longer) turns to him and hesitates.

"You seem withdrawn, Kaldur," he says at last, frowning. "Is…something troubling you?"

Kaldur forces a smile, realizing he is not playing his part correctly.

"Forgive me," he says. "My thoughts are straying, when they should be here with you and Tula. It is nothing."

Garth is silent a moment, watching Kaldur's face as if deciding whether or not to say something.

"If…if you still harbor feelings for – "

" – I do not," interrupts Kaldur gently. He looks Garth in the eye to convey his sincerity. "It has been a very long time since those days, my friend, and my happiness for the two of you is genuine."

"I am glad to hear it," says Garth, the relief visible on his face; Kaldur wonders how long he has been worrying about this. Garth lays a hand on his shoulder and and smiles. "I'm sure the woman for you is waiting just around the corner, Kaldur'ahm."

"We will see," Kaldur says with a small smile, lowering his eyes. "But tonight is your night. You should be with Tula, old friend, not with me. Go on."

Garth clasps Kaldur's arms gratefully and disappears back into the throng to rejoin his bride at the edge of the dance floor. Kaldur watches him reach her, sees him sweep her onto the floor as the music begins to well up, hears the crowd go silent in wordless appreciation of the meaning of this first dance, and feels a pang when he realizes that this silence will never fall for him.

Atlanteans are a traditional people, even more so than surface-dwellers, who have fear and hatred enough for what they don't understand. If any of the people gathered here tonight ever learned of what he has done, of what he has become, he would doubtless be banished from Atlantis without a second thought. The crowds that bear witness to love like Kaldur's are angry and violent, not loving and supportive like this one. No, Kaldur knows better than to tell his friends or his king or his mother or _anyone_ the truth.

So from the edge of the crowd, he watches Garth's hand on the small of Tula's back, firm and gentle and guiding as they move through the dance, and he thinks of Roy's fingers, callused and strong as they trace his body in the safety of the darkness, the shrouded harbor of the night.

He watches Tula's eyes, shining with love and emotion as she clasps her groom close and moves with him, and he thinks of Roy's gaze, calculatedly cold as they lock eyes from across a room of people who will never know what such a look means.

He looks around, sees all these glad-faced people brimming with happiness for the young couple, and thinks of the way Roy still seeks out Jade every so often, still kisses her and brings her home to lie with her in their bed so that no one will suspect he and Kaldur are anything more than friends and flatmates. He thinks of the many hours he has spent lying awake in the room next door and trying not to hear the rustling of the sheets or the groaning of the bedsprings or Jade's breathless gasps through the thin barrier of the wall.

Turning away from the dance, Kaldur slips away and disappears into the crowd. These people are mostly strangers to him now, after so much time away on the surface; no one stops him as he makes for the exit, leaving the party behind.

Or perhaps everyone is a stranger to him these days. That is the price of secrets, after all, and Neptune knows he has enough of them.

But every time Kaldur tries to imagine life without those scattered moments of hushed tenderness – deep kisses stolen in empty rooms, passion shared in the dead of night when the blinds are shut and the neighbors are sleeping, loving words exchanged in a murmur when the television is loud enough to mask the sound – a frigid emptiness takes him, and all color seems to drain from the world. He would give it up if he could, but while they can still play this game and fool everyone else, he cannot bring himself to walk away.

A hand descends on his shoulder, startling him. He turns back from the doorway to see Mera's kind face, sympathetic and knowing.

"Don't worry, Kaldur'ahm," she tells him as both their glances trail back to Garth and Tula, who are finishing up their dance. "You'll find her soon enough."

Kaldur smiles a perfectly-acted smile, bows to his queen.

"Patience is a virtue, Your Majesty," he says, and slips away into the open ocean.


	11. Happiness

_**HAPPINESS**_

* * *

><p>The boat is a not-wedding gift from Ollie and Dinah – technically speaking, there was no wedding, nor are Roy and Kaldur married in any legal sense of the word, but nonetheless the older adults seem to have surmised that something is different. Perhaps business-minded Ollie caught wind that Kaldur sold his apartment in Connecticut and aptly guessed the reason why. Perhaps Dinah, with her sharp eyes, noticed the remains of the ceremonial ribbon amidst the usual clutter of Roy's coffee table, and knew enough of Atlantean tradition to know what it meant. Or perhaps the two of them simply decided that after six years, their boys had proven their lack of interest in any formal validation of their relationship and had acted accordingly.<p>

They christen her _Escape_ with fresh black paint and a shattered bottle of champagne. The name is somewhat ironic – all of them have piloted enough escape boats to know that this is not one of them, with its modest engine, its inadaptable sails, and its many delightful, impractical amenities. There is a sun deck, and a lavatory, and a little kitchen with a two-burner stove, and down a few narrow stairs there is a room that occupies the space below the bow, its wall-to-wall mattress conforming to the shape of the hull. It is a small craft, built not for speed but for comfort and reliability, and its clean little mainsail twitches as if excited the first time Roy lays his hand against the mast.

"For the times you need to get away for a little while," says Dinah with a warm smile as Ollie presses the keys into Roy's hand.

Kaldur cannot suppress his own smile as his eyes roam the craft, taking in the elegant economy of its design.

"She is beautiful," he says gratefully. He knows that Ollie is not a rich man – not anymore, at least , and the generosity of the gesture does not escape him. "We cannot possibly thank you enough."

"You just keep this one out of trouble and we'll call it even," Ollie tells him, clapping Roy on the shoulder, to which the younger archer responds with a rebellious grin.

"You wish."

"I will do my best," Kaldur promises.

A fond silence descends over the four of them as the sun begins to set over the docks. Dinah and Ollie share a meaningful look that turns into a meaningful smile, then Ollie's hand quietly intertwines with hers to deliver some unspoken message. Reserved as ever, Kaldur averts his eyes from what seems to be a private moment, at which Roy chuckles and wraps an arm around the Atlantean's shoulders to give him an affectionate squeeze.

"Well," says Dinah at last, turning to the two boys (not boys anymore, she corrects herself internally – Roy turned twenty-four just last month, and Kaldur has always been an old soul, but still, on some level they will always be her boys). "We won't keep you any longer."

"You are not –"

"Go on, take her out for a spin," Ollie urges, interrupting Kaldur's attempt at politeness. "She's equipped for a night out on the harbor."

"What about patrol?" asks Roy automatically.

Dinah rolls her eyes.

"Take a break, for God's sake," she tells him. "Honestly, you're worse than Ollie."

And finally, with enough hounding, the younger two heroes make it up onto the boat and begin the process of freeing it from the dock. Kaldur raises the anchor while Roy unties its mooring lines, coiling the ropes with an ease that says he's done this a number of times before, perhaps back when Ollie's millions allowed for such outings. When at last Kaldur coaxes the engine to life and they begin to drift out towards the harbor, the two of them make their way to starboard to wave goodbye to their elders, who are standing on the edge of the pier to see them off, arms wrapped unabashedly about each other. Then they're off into the blue.

After some time, they reach open water and kill the engine. At Roy's suggestion, they head inside to familiarize themselves with the craft, moving through the cabin as the boat rocks gently on the mild swell of the harbor. Ollie and Dinah have left a picnic dinner on the fold-down table in the kitchenette, along with a bottle of wine from a vineyard Ollie used to own, and there are surprises in some of the cupboards – they find wine glasses above the sink, a six-pack of Roy's favorite beer in the minifridge, photos of their loved ones on the wall opposite the lavatory; then, to Kaldur's mortification and Roy's uncontrollable laughter, they find a bottle of lubrication and a box of condoms in a shallow cabinet in the bedroom.

"Hey, at least they approve," Roy grins as he shuts the cupboard, and despite his shame Kaldur has to nod agreeingly to that – it's not been an easy path to where they are now, and Dinah and Ollie's unexpected support has been an immeasurable relief.

Exploration complete, they return to the deck, taking dinner with them. There is a cool breeze off the water that slowly chases the day's heat away, and as the distant sun sinks into the sea they sit in companionable silence and eat. It's a different sort of isolation, out here in the salty air, taking in the cries of the gulls and the quiet lapping of the waves against the hull; they haven't had this much time to themselves in a long while, and though they're the kind of men who would just as soon spend a night fighting crooks under grimy streetlights as spend an evening trading kisses under the stars, neither can deny that this feels right. They've needed this for longer than they realized.

"Do you think they know?" asks Roy when dinner is finished. He maneuvers himself onto the deck, resting his head in Kaldur's lap and looking up at the Atlantean. "It seemed like they did."

"Batman," says Kaldur simply, and he doesn't need to explain the logic that led from Roy's question to his answer.

Roy laughs, folding his hands over his stomach.

"Probably right," he concedes. "Well, we got a boat out of it, so I guess I can't complain."

"It is a very generous gift," Kaldur agrees, absently running his fingers through Roy's hair.

Roy snorts.

"That probably also has something to do with Batman."

They fall back into silence, watching the moon rise out of the waters. Out here, away from the worst of the city lights, they can see the faint speckling of the stars in the sky, criss-crossed and outshone by the occasional airplane. From this distance they can't hear the city or its never-ceasing cry for help, the needy sirens that would normally call them away from a moment like this, and though it's not easy for either of them to accept that they're entitled to a life beyond their weapons, they're grateful for the respite anyway.

In time, they sleep. The _Escape _rocks softly at her moorings as they lie cradled in the room below the deck; it would be a short walk from the pier back to Roy's heated apartment, with its broad bed and ample pillows, but neither of them regrets it in the morning.

They can't know it then but this is the first of many, many nights they will spend at sea. The boat is ideal for both of them, for different reasons: it allows Kaldur to be close to his natural home, the sea, and to his chosen home, Roy; in turn, it allows Roy the freedom to go where he pleases, untethers him from the restrictive requirements of the stationary life that so grate against his restless nature. They travel up and down the coast like wraiths, acquainting themselves with the life and the lowlifes of every major city in the American West with each stop. When League business calls them further inland, they leave their little craft waiting at some dock or another, apply themselves to the crisis at hand, then seek it out again to glide out onto the open sea, where there are no neighbors to gossip and the horizon stretches to infinity.

On a sunny day, Kaldur will stand on the nose of the boat, barefoot and breathing deep as he soaks in the sun and the spray of the great Pacific. At the sound of the cabin door he will turn to see Roy standing there with hair mussed from sleep, and he will take a moment to appreciate the archer's tanned physique, the lean, hard muscles of his arms and chest, and the way he feels no need to hide himself after all these years. Then Roy will catch him staring, and they will both smile, and Roy will walk across the deck to fold those long arms around the Atlantean, and without saying a word they will gaze out over the ocean like some elegant two-figured bowsprit.

If it has been a while since they were last in port for supplies, Roy will attempt to fish for their lunch, although often his impatience and the better judgment of the fish will get the better of him. Whether or not he is successful, Kaldur will go for a swim, usually when the afternoon sun is at its hottest, and sometimes he will convince Roy to join him in the deep, cold waters. (Secretly, Roy always enjoys these swims almost as much as his lover does, but he enjoys Kaldur's attempts at coercion even more, so he's careful never to let on.)

When at last the sun begins to disappear in the west, traipsing over the horizon to herald some other couple's daybreak, they will settle down, limbs dangling from the edge of the craft as they pass a plate of supper and a slim bottle of wine back and forth. They will talk, of their next destination or of friends they should visit or of worries they bear, or sometimes they will not talk at all, but simply sit in silence as their feet brush and the light fades and Kaldur's head droops to rest on Roy's shoulder. Then, when true darkness comes over them and night has fallen, they will clean up their mess, and secure the boat, and retreat to the room beneath the bow, and make love to the rhythm of the deep, deep ocean.


End file.
